


Dwell (Spaces He Leaves)

by ksuzu



Series: Fantastic Beasts Snapshots [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Companion Piece to Part III of Series, F/M, Family Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:11:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8655469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ksuzu/pseuds/ksuzu
Summary: Newt leaves because he can't stay. He stays because he can't leave. The world is wide, but somehow, you can't always share the same space with someone you love. [Character Study] [Again, Speculation ahoy]





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to Tina's Climb. Told in 3 parts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But actually, Part I of this Three-Shot (please excuse; it got too long!) happened because the Leta bug caught me and my (fierce) Leta muse forced me to wrench her free from her English lady-dom organza cage. (Did that even make any sense, ugh.)

 

 

.

 

Newt is born with a name too long for his small, stubbly stature.

 

He is also born with a hunger too wild for his enclosed, carpeted estate.

 

The second Scamander child is a quiet baby, though, so no one really notices. They coddle and coo at him, as is custom, and Newt is overwhelmed. He grows quieter against the echoing walls, wanting nothing more than to be in that wild, free space outside his nursery window. He’s not quite tall enough, so he props some children’s books and stands on his tiptoes, watching the feathery, furry things with beaks, outside in the enclosure, playing with Mum.

 

His hunger is insatiable.

 

But there are spaces children are not allowed to explore. He’s deemed too young to venture into the grounds, on his own. The visits his mum allows him are not enough.

 

“Thes—Theseus,” Newt says one day, with great difficulty, stretching his arms up at his enormous, sturdy elder brother.

 

Newt has observed baby birds on the rafters do this with their family members, getting food in their mouths in reward for their efforts. Possibly, it works the same way here.

 

“Bugger off, Newt,” Theseus says, too old and too sophisticated to do much else but practice flying on his new quidditch broom.

 

Newt looks solemn, says nothing.

 

He learns. Nothing works the same way with humans. And no matter how high Theseus can soar on that broom, his brother is a human, not a bird.

 

.

.

.

 

There are ecosystems in which only certain species can dwell.

 

Newt learns quickly that, just as he can’t bring toads and flobberworms into his nursery (his governess shrieks, so he makes do with horklumps), certain humans cannot dwell in the community Newt is trapped inside—oh, excuse him, he’s _blessed_ to be born into.

 

His mum is unconcerned. His dad, very much so.

 

“You’re an odd one, Newt,” mum smiles after Newt brings a pet fire crab (say hi, Frederick) to the dining table. “Theseus, how’s quidditch practice going, son?” his father booms as Frederick is unceremoniously carried out.

 

Newt decides he _is_ a bit odd—human-but-not-quite. He’s terrified, because he’s not quite sure where he can inhabit, neither one nor the other.

 

Eventually, Newt meets another human-but-not-quite in the most unlikely of spaces.

 

He’s dressed to the nines for the party, except for the voluminous mane of tangly, reddish brown hair the maid thought sweet and his mum didn’t have enough time to tease down, after she fed the hippogriffs.

 

Then The Girl floats by in a cloud of spring green organza. When her mother introduces her to his mother, Newt is astounded by her intelligent, soulful eyes—they are like hippogriff eyes, not like dull, glazed, _bored_ human ones. They stare at him and Newt feels _seen_.

 

Her voice has the shadow of a lisp. Still, she’s very good at hiding it, with her upturned chin and her imperious smile. Yet, neither of these genteel affects can hide the wildness in her eyes.

 

So Newt tries again, with great difficulty.

 

“I’m Newt,” he says softly.

 

He can’t quite take his eyes off her, but he’s too painfully hot (blood rushing to his red, red face) to stare unswervingly. But he can’t stop staring. A rapid succession of blinks is the compromise his body makes with him.

 

And Leta Lestrange laughs—loud, wild, and free.

 

Then she pushes a hand in front of her mouth, eyes glinting, as if she’s done something very wicked.

 

“You’re like my puffskein,” she admits, face no longer imperious, but still so, so full of life.

 

.

.

.

 

School is a space where a particular breed of human excels.

 

Newt’s old enough to understand that, alas, he’s not a creature, and old enough to appreciate that just fine. After all, Newt’s smitten. With a _human._

 

It’s not a school house thing, between them. Those divisions are wholly human and arbitrary, to Newt’s mind. Him and Leta, they take on the world—although it’s mostly just them exploring shifting corridors, school grounds, and collecting the more portable magical creatures.

 

They try to avoid crowds, when they can. The popular breed at Hogwarts is not kind to Newt—they’re imposing and noisy and full of veiled ill-wishes. Newt has mixed feelings when he realizes that the Slytherins treat Leta the same way that the whole school treats him.

 

Maybe it’s a defense mechanism thing, like when fire crabs shoot flames out of their… you know. While Newt gets quieter and more fidgety, Leta’s imperiousness grows.

 

Her soulful, wild eyes are now more wild than anything else. Beneath the wildness, Newt still sees peeks of the fear that his friend tries to hide—as if she’s done something wicked, by being the way she is.

 

“Newt, just know that ‘ _hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’_ ,” Leta says loftily, tying an exploding snap to a wild cat and sending it off to the Slytherin Prefect’s room. “You won’t ever scorn me, will you?”

 

“Never,” he swears.

 

The incident lands her in detention, but detention for a Lestrange is a very discreet thing.

 

No one mentions it, not even faculty. Later that night, though, Leta raps on the Hufflepuff porthole looking into Newt’s room, and sobs angry tears into the night as he holds her shoulder under the starlight.

 

“How dare they,” she sobs. “No one understands.”

 

“I do,” Newt says, and amends, because he does not want to be untruthful like everyone else in this place. “I try.”

 

She tucks her slender arm into his, and her watery smile is ethereal. Her eyes, behind the tears, are wild and soulful. Soulful and wild.

 

“Newt, it’s us against the world. Don’t you dare abandon me, ever.”

 

He couldn’t. Ever.

 

It’s as she says.

 

It’s them against the world.

 

There’s no space Newt can imagine dwelling in, other than one that houses both of them, together.

 

.

.

.

 

Halfway through his final year, Theseus does a very un-Theseus thing.

 

His brother has all the reason in the world to continue ignoring them both. He’s long ago decided that being Prefect and Head Boy is the space that he desires to inhabit. As such, he’s retired his quidditch robes in favor of things he excels at—meaning Number One, of course, not Two or Three. And among the things that are second-best, and increasingly getting worse, is his little brother.

 

Theseus corners him one day, in the corridor.

 

Associations like last names in a school where Professors use last names are hard to bury.

 

“Newt,” he chides. “Must you fool around with that Lestrange girl? Her family isn’t bad, but you should see the rumors hanging off of that girl. She’ll kill your prospects, Newt. I can get you some better girls, you know. If you’re really dedicated, you should try out for the dueling club and quit that herbology stuff. Make Hogwarts worth your while.”

 

Newt is aghast. He’s never truly hated Theseus until now.

 

He’s sure the space that is Hogwarts would not be worth it, without Care of Magical Creatures, or without Leta.

 

.

.

.

 

Ironically, it turns out that everything that made Hogwarts worth it is stripped away from him _along with_ his diploma.

 

There are certain lines Newt will never cross, with his creatures, with humans. But Leta is braver, wilder, angrier.

 

Everyone is very discreet about the Incident, just like with Leta’s detention. Newt himself isn’t quite sure what is truly happening, just that she’s all he has, and he’s all she has.

 

So he volunteers for her.

 

It’s them against the world, the world inhabiting a space they can’t inhabit.

 

 _He_ can’t inhabit.

 

Any longer.

 

Newt pens her a letter when he leaves Hogwarts.

 

_‘Take care, Let. I’ll write you. See you at hols.'_

 

Leta doesn’t write him.

 

(People change.)

 

And Newt doesn’t (can’t) go home for the next holiday. And the next.

 

.

.

.

 

The Ministry can’t enclose him. The world is a big place. Newt finds lots of open spaces to observe, help its creatures, and move on from. He doesn’t need to dwell in any, because the world is a too-big place to sit still.

 

His hunger is still insatiable, but now it’s raw. The hole from his once-best-friend is too strangely-shaped for any magical creature to fill.

 

It’s a human-shaped hole.

 

After all, certain species belong in certain spaces.

 

Newt doesn’t dwell too much on the emptiness he feels, because the world is a big place where you can run away from yourself, if you want. He’s being shuffled to bigger and wider spaces. Austria, Germany, France, South Africa, Sudan, Egypt—

 

He’s about to move on down under to Australia when he realizes (staring at the black, twisting shape that couldn’t fill the hole in the Sudanese girl)—you can’t wander selfishly forever.

 

Certain species belong in certain spaces.

 

So Newt books a ticket to New York. For Frank.

 

.

.

.

 

It’s not Tina, but the sight of Queenie that first truly upsets him. Newt is struck by how Leta-like she is, at first glance. Leta is caramel brulée while Queenie is lemon meringue, but they’re both incredibly shiny to behold. Newt is desperate to leave the brownstone apartment for a number of reasons.

 

However, he learns later that while Queenie can see _through_ him, she cannot _see_ him, like Leta can (could, once).

 

It’s Tina, instead—Tina, with her determined face and her straight brown locks. Tina, the nosy ex-Auror who won’t take a hint. When Tina stands next to her sister, it rather feels like he’s seeing himself, just a bit, when he stands next to Leta—beautiful, soulful, wild Leta.

 

Except that Tina turns out to be much, much stronger than him, so he let’s that analogy drop.

 

Tina _sees_.

 

She sees him in all of the spaces that Newt desperately tries to flit through. She doesn’t let him off in her investigation, her gaze is so focused on following him, even though he’s a wisp of a man, just a shadow passing through spaces he cannot inhabit.

 

This makes Newt uncomfortable.

 

But he’s sure that Tina is someone who sees and cares for all species as they are, and this makes him comfortable enough to leave his creatures with her, in case he leaves forever, as he apparates into the night sky.

 

But there are ecosystems in which only certain species can dwell. Newt cannot, in New York. It’s too crowded, with too many people and too little tea (or was that Boston?).

 

Though it doesn’t hurt to visit, again.

 

.

.

.

 

He writes his book like he’s writing letters to his creatures, infusing them with love in the spaces (on the pages) that they now inhabit in ink and daguerreotype.

 

In between, he writes actual letters, responding to family inquiring about his latest exploits (oddities). His mum writes fond things. His dad inquires less frequently.

 

 _“Newt,”_ writes Theseus, though his Ministry desk and Newt’s Ministry desk are not _quite_ so far away.

 

_“I hear you’ve been making great progress from Mr. Worme of Obscurus Books. I met him while doing field investigations at his Diagon Alley shop the other day, and I found some rather good scones on the other end of the street. Perhaps you’d care to join me, next time.”_

 

Newt’s learning. There are certain holes, spaces, that cannot be filled by his wonderful creatures. There may be a Theseus-shaped one in there, somewhere.

 

He receives other, more welcome letters, too.

 

_“Mr. Scamander,_

 

_Hopefully you have reached home and are doing well. I’m enclosing some of New York’s finest coffee beans in case you need help writing late into the night._

_I’m looking forward to reading your book._

 

 _ ~~Yours~~ ”_ (And this has been carefully crossed out, many times. But Newt has access to Ministry decoders.)

 

_“My best,_

_Tina.”_

 

He smiles, and is already thinking of his response, as he takes the letter opener and rips into the final piece of mail.

 

_“Dear Sir,_

 

_This is to inform you of the disappearance of one Leta Lestrange, from custody at an undisclosed location southeast of London. You have been noted as a potential witness, and your testimony at our investigative office is requested. Please verify your status and permanent postal address, and we will be in touch shortly._

 

_Yours sincerely,_

_Department of Enforced Magical Disappearances_

_Ministry of Magic”_

 

.

.

.

 

There are some spaces he cannot dwell in, no matter how temporarily comfortable.

 

Like an odd, embarrassingly fragile kind of creature, Newt cannot breathe here, any longer.

 

He dons his crisp new uniform, hair voluminous and ruddy, and leaves.

 

.

.

.

 

It’s them against the world, the world inhabiting a space they can’t inhabit.

 

“It’s us against this Muggle world, don’t you see, Newt,” Leta shouts, and she’s unrecognizable from the child in spring green organza. Her eyes are wild, frightened, angry. Her voice booms with magical authority over the green pitch, where the trenches have been emptied of life, and it’s just them, left.

 

She’s spared him, for some reason. Newt wishes she hasn’t. He doesn’t want to see her, this way. He doesn’t want her to see him, this way.

 

“It’s always been like this, Newt, them oppressing us, telling us we’re different.”

 

Leta’s on dragon-back, and she’s a vision, truly (Newt’s heart clenches, hot and painful). Leta Lestrange is beautiful as no other girl is, ever. He’s scared of her, of the imperious woman she’s become, but he’s more terrified for the _imperio_ ’d Ridgeback she’s controlling.

 

As always, he talks with great difficulty.

 

“Don’t do this, Let. It’s me, Newt. I can’t hurt you. I can’t ever abandon you, you know that. Let’s fight, together. I-I understand.”

 

“Don’t lie,” Leta spits, her heartbreakingly beautiful face truly imperious, her eyes unseeing in the haze of war. “We’re like night and day now. Look what I’ve taught our creatures to become. The heights I’ve achieved. You can’t ever understand me, Newt.”

 

“I try,” Newt says. “I tried,” because he wants to be honest.

 

There are certain lines Newt will never cross, with his creatures, with humans. It seems Leta’s crossed them. Maybe this is what they call war.

 

Another girl’s voice floats into his ear, soothing him, reminding him of a promise to visit somewhere away from this place. Newt can’t join Leta, not now. They’ve both changed.

 

_Leta tucks her slender arm into his, and her watery smile is ethereal. Her eyes, behind the tears, are wild and soulful. Soulful and wild._

 

_Leta laughs—loud, wild, and free._

 

Newt frees the only thing he's still capable of freeing. His wand aims true.

 

The Ridgeback roars. Its scaled spines pierce the sky.

 

“Please, stop,” Newt roars back, his hand reaching out to her, even as Leta’s spell brands him, tugs him forward, toward her.

 

The Ridgeback takes to the violent, gray heavens.

 

Newt hits a rock, his leg breaking with the force of impact. The physical pain is an afterthought. He’s grounded, immediately.

 

There’s no longer any space Newt can imagine himself and Leta in, together.

 

Even gravity, even the laws of physics agree with him.

 

Newt is broken.

 

And Leta—beautiful, wild, soulful Leta—is tossed into the sky, her body finally free as the Dragonfire scatters her ashes to the wind.

 

.

.

.

 

Under the quiet, soft gray of the Normandy skies, an empty man with a too-long name is crumpled to the ground, dressed like a war officer.

 

She is dressed like an English nurse. It’s all very wrong.

 

Regardless, he and Tina crash together. Their shaking hands touch, making sure of one another.

 

Tina is like that rock, her stark, worried face breaking Newt further but grounding him as well, so substantial and firm, she is. She stares right at him, _sees_ him.

 

“Did you meet Leta?”

 

It takes all of his energy to tell the truth, sometimes. “Yes, yeah.”

 

Newt crumples, and he cannot help but feel deserted, as if the one that he once loved (still loves) has moved to a space he cannot inhabit.

 

He feels Tina hug him, as if she’s holding him together, holding him to the earth, lest he float like a ghost away from this wretched place.

 

“Where is she? Can we help her?” Tina whispers into Newt’s ear.

 

_There’s no space Newt can imagine dwelling in, other than one that houses both of them, together._

“Leta’s dead.”

_“Newt, it’s us against the world. Don’t you dare abandon me, ever.”_

 

He wants to say he _didn’t_ , but Newt cannot lie.

 

He left.

 

.

.

.

 

End Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote Tina, from the last one-shot, Climb, I can't hate Leta because she's too different, from me, and I don't understand her, fully. 
> 
> I tried, though. I tried (to quote Newt).
> 
> Part II uploaded whenever the muse kicks me again. But I seriously need to study. And reply to comments from all you lovely people. I am shell-shocked that people like this, and we can commiserate in being angst-loving shipper trash together.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has become a three-parter, as noted in the edit. Unfortunately Leta takes space. I'm not fully happy with it, but I just don't know enough about the past to write without drowning in fanciful, unrealistic sorrow. 
> 
> As for the other reason I'm keen on the three-parts, the third will have fluff and go further than the ending to Tina's Climb. I don't love writing purely repetitive scenes.

.

 

Tina sees him in all of the spaces that Newt desperately tries to flit through. But Newt moves with a limp now. He's easy to catch.

 

She watches him with eagle eyes when he’s first carted off to the converted chateau-hospital in southeast England, her gaze focused on following him, even though he’s a wisp of a man, just a shadow weighted by guilt and memory.

 

Like a good nurse, she talks to him, constantly, cajoling him to be treated when all Newt wants to do is run away, and hide from her strong, kind gaze. He would travel the world again, if he could. (He plays with escape-by-floo scenarios.) But a small, lurking voice tells him that, sometimes, the world isn’t big enough to run away from yourself.

 

The voice sounds like Leta.

 

Newt is quite certain he’s going mad.

 

“Please don’t,” he tries when Tina—eternal patience run dry—storms into his ward. It’s not really a ward, more of a bed with flimsy white curtains drawn around it. All the same, she flicks the curtains aside and pulls out her wand, face stony. (The injured man next door lets out a demure squeak.)

 

“The doctors are here,” Tina says, wearing her nurse hat and brandishing her wand as if she dares Newt, cursed leg and all, to leave (“just try it”). Newt swallows heavily.

 

So he sits very still as they brace both of his knees and apply various charms to his bad leg, locking him down to one place for good.

 

Although Newt believes (wants to believe) the prescribing mediwitch means well, her poultice and medical order see fit to confine him to his childhood estate as the world outside slowly burns down around them.

 

Tina comes with him (Newt tries not to wonder if she would have, barring mediwitch’s instructions) carrying a familiar suitcase. The dull, battered old thing is something she uniquely understands is his _life,_ what little is left.

 

.

.

.

 

“How do you do, Mr. and Mrs. Scamander,” Tina says, dressed as an English nurse but looking every inch an Investigative Auror, a soft fire in her eyes. “I’m your son’s nurse, Porpentina Goldstein.”

 

“We received the hospital’s letter,” his mother says. She steps forward to grasp a slightly surprised Tina’s hand. “I’ve made accommodations for you here, so you cancel that reservation at the Apothecary Inn, dear. Any friend of our son's is a friend of ours.”

 

Tina's eyes soften.

 

She next turns to Newt’s father, his aging, stubborn father, dressed in dark tweeds and formally retired from consulting at Gringotts. “Sir, I’ve heard so much about your work advising the global economy. You are a great asset to the magical community here and in America.”

 

Tina speaks clearly, honestly, without any difficulty.

 

It’s bewildering, because Newt’s not sure he’s seen this side of her, except when she’s fighting for those she loves.

 

Merlin’s _bloody_ beard _._

 

Then Leta’s voice whispers that it’s _impossible_ , he’s _undeserving_.

 

Undeserving is the least of Newt’s problems. The roles that he’s carefully inhabited have been permanently reversed. He’s no longer fit to be the caretaker, but the one forced to receive. Tina seems content enough to give. For now. Newt’s not sure how he feels about this.

 

He wants to run away, but he can’t. He's never been good at it in the past.

 

_“It’s me, Newt. I can’t ever abandon you, you know that.”_

 

.

.

.

 

The world churns on. Newly-acclaimed author Newton Scamander struggles over the second edition of Fantastic Beasts, the first edition on international shelves is earning a steady stream of revenue to pay for his… whatever this is.

 

The troops come home at the end of December, and Theseus, Ministry Senior Auror, arrives on the doorstep to attend some social functions in his bid for Head Auror.

 

“Mingling’s best done during vacation,” Theseus winks at a glum, cast-wearing Newt, proffering a small container of Diagon Alley scones, as he gives his mother and father hugs. “Could never see the use of those old ladies’ parties, until now. Mum, you coming to London for Season this year?”

 

“Never could see the fun of it, _after_ Christmas,” Mrs. Scamander says airily. “And your father’s a bit ill.”

 

“Old man’s in the shock stage of retirement. He’ll be better by February,” Theseus laughs, charming the house elves (that Newt relocated at his previous 2-sickle desk job) into snickering a bit.

 

Theseus grins back, before his eyes land on Tina.

 

“Tina Goldstein, from New York—” She moves before the elder Scamander brother can speak. Tina’s all poise as she walks smartly toward him, hand outreached to shake. “—Newt’s friend.”

 

Newt can’t run, is forced to watch, his cast heavy and weighting him down to the chair. Still, he must count his blessings. He’s glad she’s left out the ‘nurse’ bit.

 

But a strange sensation squeezes around the hollow space in his chest, seeing Tina’s face as Theseus kisses her knuckles.

 

.

.

.

 

There are lots of well-wishers, and people who try to be encouraging (or just lie) when they say one published book is good enough for an entire lifetime. Ironically, it’s Theseus—perfect, unreachable Theseus—who comes to Newt, first, with something more substantial than a pitying face.

 

“Newt, about Miss Goldstein…”

 

Newt wishes he has collapsible ears like a grindylow.

 

There was once another girl, another admonishment. Newt’s handicapped, not stupid. Though he’s unable to fully comprehend Tina Goldstein’s meaning in his life, he knows that staying here would feel worthless if not for her.

 

His surprisingly fierce feelings give him his voice.

 

“She’s the best person I know, Theseus. Don’t you dare.”

 

Theseus recoils as if he’s been disarmed in a duel.

 

“Right,” he says, and the usual grin he wears for dinner parties and business meetings slides off his face, replaced by a small, lopsided one not unlike Newt’s own. “Well, that’s not what I was going to say.”

 

“What, then?”

 

“Think of this as an early Christmas present, Newt. I just thought you’d like to know, have a right to know—Dad told me that we’re going to start introducing Tina—can I call her that—Tina, as your _fiancée_.”

 

Newt’s mouth tastes of ash. He’s not a fat man descending the chimney, but even he could do better than Theseus’ idea of a _present_.

 

“It’s just in name, Newt, but Dad’s insistent that we let the news blow over since she’s been living with us and spending so much time… well, you know. I thought the girl might mean more to you than rumor fodder, Newt. It could hurt you, to attach that label to her. I doubt she’ll like it either, no-nonsense American gal like her.”

 

_“‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’”_

 

_“You won’t ever scorn me, will you?”_

 

“No, never,” Newt says.

 

He shakes his head, confused. He needs to be strong for her ( _for who?_ ) in this elaborate cage she’s unused to. So this is what this unfeeling place would reduce her to. Strong, resilient, wild and free, dragged into the weeds of English wizarding society.

 

“You can ask her,” Newt finally grits out, knuckles white. “It’s her choice.”

 

His head clears. He knows what selfless Tina will choose.

 

He’s a coward, fully human.

 

Theseus frowns, and puts an arm around his baby brother. “Newt, I’m sorry, but I’m just giving you the heads up. The information’s already planted, per Dad’s instructions. Now it’s in the hands of the local gossip. You know how these things work. It’s society.”

 

_“How dare they,” a girl sobs. “No one understands.”_

 

_“I understand. I try.”_

 

“Alright,” Newt murmurs after a minute. “Thanks, Theseus.”

 

.

.

.

 

Again, Tina exceeds expectations. She really is much, much stronger than him.

 

Tina _sees_. She sees the murmuring mouths, fluttering fans, wrinkling crepe and dazzling chandeliers, and she does not quake. She does not bow, grow insular, nor become imperious as they assail her.

 

 _Porpentina Goldstein_ —for that is how Society introduces her—arrives at every event, her long, lithe frame seeming to grow taller and straighter with each individual encounter.

 

After a while around the circuit, Newt sees the admiring glances, the intrigued looks. He’s always been observant like that. There’s gentlemen, soldiers, estate owners, political heirs, waiting in the wings.

 

The strange sensation squeezes again, insistently, around the hollow space in his chest.

 

“Why don’t you try a waltz?” he blurts, sitting with his bad leg propped up.

 

He catches her mid-sip, and Tina sputters a bit cutely. She puts down her champagne flute and her mouth grimaces at him quickly while no one is looking.

 

“I’m _American_ , Newt,” she says, as if that settles it. “I don’t fit here. Anyway, I’m not here for the dancing.”

 

 _‘Why are you here, then?’_ Newt wants to shout. But doesn’t. He can take a lot of things for granted, sometimes, just like the worst of humans would.

 

Tina sees and still inhabits this space. With him.

 

Maybe she cares for him.

 

The hollow feeling expands. This is bewildering. There have been a few creatures who were loathe to part with him to the point of staying inside his suitcase, content to choose a caged life with him over any other

 

But Newt’s never thought any human would want that, too.

 

Against reason, against his ghosts, Newt feels a hope churning.

 

An insatiable hunger he thought gone reignites along with that hope.

 

.

.

.

 

Eventually they give him a crutch, which is good, except that it reminds Newt of an unpleasant DaDA teacher he had second year, who thankfully left after Professor Dumbledore inquired into the costs and benefits of corporeal punishment with a bejeweled walking stick.

 

Most of the exercise in his day is hobbling to Tina’s guest room and back.

 

He’s not sure when traveling the world (running away) has become an afterthought to traveling the one hundred and thirty-two paces to her corridor.

 

Newt knocks on her slightly ajar door one evening, and sees Tina’s face reflected in the mirror.

 

There are tears streaming down. She’s holding a letter (her sister’s, Newt guesses), and her slender frame crumpled over the bed, swathed in beautiful pale green organza his mother bought her for tonight’s party.

 

Newt doesn’t hobble back to his room. He practically levitates.

 

When he gets there, Newt throws the crutch against his wall, where it shatters after Newt utters a few low curses, feeling a rage like Leta’s old tantrums.

 

He’s been using Tina—brilliant, strong Tina—like a tool.

 

There are ecosystems in which only certain species can dwell.

 

But that’s too simple.

 

Newt is the jailer, tying Tina captive to this place.

 

After all, he learnt from the best.

 

_“Newt, it’s us against the world. Don’t you dare abandon me, ever.”_

 

.

.

.

 

Tina tries to get him to open up, tries to tie herself down to death, with him. She’s tireless in her efforts.

 

So he scorns her.

 

“Would you rather Leta Lestrange be here?” she asks one day, her heart clearly breaking.

 

Newt’s own nearly stops, because Tina doesn’t understand. She’s too different, too good, to understand.

 

Leta was born here.

 

 _He_ was born here, with a name too long for his small, stubbly stature.

 

There are ecosystems in which only certain species can dwell.

 

Doesn’t Tina understand that this place will be the slow death of her? That she could, and should, be free? Her strength and heart make her deserving of a world as wide and gracious as she is. She is deserving of much more than him as a companion.

 

Leta eventually came to understand that she was above this stifling place, and above Newt.

 

_“We’re like night and day now. Look what I’ve taught our creatures to become. The heights I’ve achieved.”_

 

And though it hurts—Merlin, _so much_ —Newt wishes Tina understood that, too.

 

So he scorns her the only way he knows how.

 

Leta’s ghosts have always been efficient at hurting people.

 

.

.

.

 

Tina moves out and Newt is left with phantoms.

 

His hunger for the world outside is slowly fading, as he learns to dwell in a menagerie with other weakened creatures that cannot dwell outside the suitcase or his mother’s enclosures.

 

It’s in the last light of autumn that Ms. Goldstein comes to bid him a final farewell.

 

Newt knows, because Theseus has told him—Theseus, who would not open any avenues for his baby brother, is now his closest informant. Despite the prestige of each worldly title Theseus inhabits, those pale in comparison to his new strength of character. But, Newt realizes, Theseus has always been tall, sturdy, like a tree, while Newt is at most like a bowtruckle, picking locks and flitting across spaces, struggling with attachment issues.

 

She pours hot velvety coffee into his mug. Newt has trouble sleeping at night anyways, and he doesn’t touch it.

 

“I’m not Leta,” Tina whispers, and her voice is beautiful, soulful, breaking.

 

She continues, puzzling him, forcing his neurons alive as no black coffee ever could.

 

_“Newt, it’s us against the world. Don’t you dare abandon me, ever.”_

 

“I feel about you the way—the way I imagine she might have, once.”

 

_“Don’t you dare abandon me, ever.”_

 

Newt’s not sure that Tina’s got it quite right. Although a raw, Tina-shaped hole in him is exultant, this knowledge of Tina’s attachment to him only alarms Newt further.

 

They are two species of girls, Newt thinks.

 

“She didn’t take you with her,” Tina whispers.

 

Newt is unsure. Leta, wild, soulful Leta, was a taker. His leg still stings with the feeling of Leta taking him, ripping through his flesh and bone in her effort as she soared to the sky, and he was left on earth.

 

“I have to thank Leta for that,” Tina whispers.

 

Tina doesn’t know. Tina is a giver, and has known no other mode. Her soulful eyes won’t meet his, but they are the most beautiful he’s ever seen.

 

“I can’t figure out how to hate her, when she’s so different from me.”

 

If Leta was a dragon, her fire burning all opposition. Tina is something else entirely, a nonetheless fierce creature he’s not yet discovered, giving life through blood, sweat, and tears, for others.

 

The enclosed spaces that Leta tried to crush from the inside with force, Tina widened and accepted until the cage was so large, the space so vast, that it could not be called an enclosure any longer.

 

He’s torn.

 

Newt realizes that he wants, so intensely, to dwell in her space. To be near her gravity.

 

But he doesn’t know how. It’s like the moment he lets a formerly injured creature out of his suitcase. Newt’s no thunderbird, not even an erumpent, content to launch itself into any desirable object. Newt has attachment issues.

 

Still, with great difficulty, his calloused fingers find Tina’s cheek, draws her close, as if she’s his tree.

 

“Thank you,” he says.

 

_There’s no space Newt can imagine dwelling in, other than one that houses both of them, together._

 

Truly, truly. Newt will not lie.

 

 _‘It’s you. Only you’_ , he wants to say.

 

There’s no space Newt can imagine dwelling in, other than one that houses him with her, together.

 

Then he lets her leave.

 

.

.

.

 

End Part II.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I leave up to you readers whether Newt loves Leta still. 
> 
> I think there's both love and quite the opposite, because Newt does see a toxicity about the grown-up Leta. Tina's words in Climb describing the two taking different paths is very true.
> 
> Thanks tremendously much for reading this along with me. See you very soon with Part III, I hope.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are here, finally. Dear readers: there are so many different threads you may perish. 
> 
> I deleted some of them, since it was just too much to keep track of. However, I sincerely hope there's still enough to make for happy, productive re-readings.
> 
> Finally, idk re: wizarding rituals. If someone has thoughts to fix the end scene, lemme know. X)

 

.

 

Newt is left with a limp and too many empty spaces in his enclosed, carpeted estate.

 

He keeps busy, or rather, business keeps him. His publisher threatens to ship him off to London to promote a new _Fantastic Beasts_ edition, but Newt doesn’t have the material.

 

He manages a compromise with small town book signings. They’re well attended by those who inhabit his countryside ecosystem but don’t run in the same circles—stodgy farmers, grandmas with too many kneazles, all country folk of modest means, the kind who cook a mean bean stew and find the field horklump to be their most dreaded enemy. They thus find Newt’s childhood horklump experimentation most valuable.

 

In between book signings and research, Newt walks in and out of the estate as he wishes, in and out of his father’s room with trays of tea and financial reports.

 

A once larger-than-life man is bedridden. He falls asleep reading, and the second Scamander son picks up after him as he would for his creatures. Once, Newt fingers brush the spine of a familiar book, nestled in the coverlet.

 

As Newt walks out, thumbing the well-worn pages, Theseus appears from the corner, on his routine weekend visit.

 

“Dad’s not _proud_ of me, is he?” Newt asks. Even his nonchalance is bewildered.

 

His brother laughs. “Intrigued, maybe. Dad always reads about the things he doesn’t understand. Things he thinks are too dangerous to attempt himself.”

 

“‘Too dangerous’,” Newt echoes. “But he married _Mum_.”

 

Theseus’ mirth only increases. “They adapted to each other, adapted to a world that didn’t understand them at first. We managed to get Mum’s appetite for life, for the wild things. You especially. Why d’you think you were the only one who hung around that Lestrange girl?”

 

Newt’s face must have given him away.

 

Theseus’ eyes are knowing. “It’s time you reevaluated your old flame. Newt, you can’t blame yourself for what you were drawn to, but when fire burns, it’s alright to draw back.”

 

“I already made my decision,” Newt insists.

 

“And I’m just voicing my opinion,” Theseus returns.

 

.

.

.

 

Once, Newt thought himself human-but-not-quite. Now he knows he’s human, the good and bad of it.

 

Being drawn to, repulsed from, and running through spaces has always been a natural process, sating a hunger he was born with. Humans obsess over questions of agency, reasoning, logic, morals—but creatures just are. Be.

 

Leta held animal magnetism, burned him, before their diverging paths cooled everything. But Dragonfire burns take time to heal. Time and space.

 

One hundred and thirty-two paces of space.

 

Limping to Tina’s old room, to, and back, and to again, Newt thinks about why Tina followed him. He also thinks about why she left. About why he let her go. It’s not just animal magnetism. There’s also something chaotically human about the whole thing—a lot of logic, reasoning, and morals that Newt agonized and agonizes over.

 

In the empty room, Leta’s voice sometimes recedes. Tina’s gravity on him grows stronger, even as she’s across time zones and a milieu of space.

 

But Newt—

 

—Newt is stuck in between, longing for escape from his enclosure.

 

.

.

.

 

Newt’s not the only one stuck. There are spaces certain creatures should not dwell in, no matter how temporarily comfortable. Though his actions won’t bode well for an updated second edition, Newt sets free his suitcase’s wonders, one by one. Usually, they flit out graciously, when he’s healed or replenished their populations.

 

Some of them choose to stay, either too weak or too afraid.

 

After all, it’s them against the world, the world inhabiting a space they can’t inhabit.

 

Newt understands.

 

Like an odd, particular kind of creature, he can’t (won’t) free himself, no matter how much stronger his body becomes. Doing chores in his suitcase, pressing his back against the wheelbarrow as he hoists fertilizer, Newt haunts these enclosed habitats, until— _Merlin_.

 

He looks ruefully at his trousers.

 

Dung is dung, no matter what name (fertilizer) you call it. Spritzing a bit of water from his wand doesn’t quite do it. He takes the nearby rusted watering can and splashes some fat droplets on his caked trouser leg. Then, Newt removes the lid and tilts the can.

 

An adventurous beetle, dislodging itself from dung, flits inside, a long streak of purple plumage slithering in soon after.

 

The displaced water soaks his shoes.

 

“Come on, now. Get out of there,” Newt cajoles the opportune occamy. “You can’t just go filling any space you like. It’s not for you.”

 

The shameless, spoiled thing squawks at him. _Don’t lie._

 

“Perhaps,” says Newt. “You have a point.”

 

.

.

.

 

“Thes—Theseus,” Newt says one day. He feels again like a baby bird in the rafters, and all he knows how to do is crane his neck and make incomprehensible noises. Then, with great difficulty:

 

“I think I need to travel again.”

 

“ _Scones_ ,” declares the illustrious Head Auror, sending papers and an heirloom tea cup crashing down the un-waxed surface of his large, oaken desk, utterly scandalizing the secretary.

 

At Diagon Alley, over scones, his brother reveals that their father’s not the only one who’s read Newt’s book. “You released Frank to Arizona. You say that certain species belong in certain spaces.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you understand that humans aren’t creatures?”

 

“Yes,” Newt says, because of course, humans aren’t like creatures. Theseus is the one who taught him that, at the beginning.

 

“Are you going to New York?”

 

“N-no, Australia. My editor was quite frank in telling me the second edition’s not going to get written moping about. It’s time I stopped lying to him.”

 

“Miss Goldstein’s in New York.”

 

Newt sputters. “ _Pardon._ ”

 

“Tina, I mean.” Theseus tosses a jaunty wave at a passing gaggle of Ministry secretarial staff.  “If you miss her, you don’t have to mope around here, Newt. You think you have it rough? Just think of the mismatch between Dad and Mum. Our parents _look_ for the places they can share, together. They adapt to that world, and that world to them.”

 

_“Newt, it’s us against the world.”_

 

Newt shakes his head, calms the receding whisper. 

 

“Oh brother mine,” Theseus grins. “Before updating your book, try researching something your own size.”

 

.

.

.

 

Theseus’ sturdy oak desk in the morning holds one angry resignation note from his Secretary and one other, in assiduous, scrawling script.

 

_“Theseus,_

 

_The scones are quite tasty. They were good when you brought them home for Christmas, but I was too upset to admit it then. Apologies. Since I know they won’t be dulled by travel, I’ve picked some up myself for a quick trip._

_Mum gave me her blessings. Before you ask for what, she says to bugger off about bothering with my prospects._

_Please take care of Dad while I’m gone. I trust you. I’m depending on you._

 

_Newt”_

 

.

.

.

 

For a brief moment, the salty sea wind whispers of Leta. He steps away from the starboard. You can’t wander selfishly, closed in on yourself, forever. That’s just called being stuck.

 

The world is a big place. His hunger is less daunting, as he explores its shape. There may be a hundred hollows inside of Newt, but he’s filling them, slowly, surely. Some of his creatures are occamies, filling those available spaces.

 

Humans are not creatures, but some humans are like occamies too.

 

Leta and her Dragonfire burned the space, and Tina’s settled in.

 

But Tina’s presence expanded the space, somehow—

 

expanded his horizons

 

—until Newt’s not the one looking to fill his own emptiness, but instead help fill hers.

 

_“I’m not Leta, but I feel about you the way—the way I imagine she might have, once.”_

 

Newt is fine with that.

 

More than fine.

 

.

.

.

 

The raindrops of New York are strangely like London’s, as if they belong to the same ecosystem. Newt in his haste doesn’t bother to launch an umbrella from his wand. Instead, he splashes through the last few steps from the deserted alleyway to Tina’s brownstone. He hopes she’s alright with this. He ‘borrowed’ Ministry resources once again, to decipher the things she doesn’t tell him.

 

 _(“Yours,”_ she’d signed, all those months ago. Newt clings to that, now.)

 

When knocking produces no results, Newt considers mouthing an _Alohamora_ at the front door. For a brief moment, he thinks he’ll resort to Pickett. Then the doorknob transfigures into a crone-like face. It peers with squinty discerning eyes at him. _‘Hmmm, too skinny’_ , the knob hums, before it turns and the door swings open.

 

A familiar voice floats down to him.

 

“—ways alone, Mrs. Esposito.”

 

Newt realizes again that he wants, so intensely, to dwell in her space. Her gravity alone carries him up the first few steps. Tina turns, and her eyes are soulful, beautiful. She edges towards the bannister as if unsure of him. He tries, with great difficulty, to not chase her away, as she is the rarest he’s ever encountered. Say something unthreatening, Newt.

 

“I’d like to bring my fiancée back to Europe.”

 

He sounds like some English poacher.

 

“This is most awkward,” Newt murmurs. He bounds up the stairs, filled with mysterious energy as he is also propelled by her gravity on him. And suddenly, he’s in front of her.

 

Tina’s eyes are warm and scared and hopeful as she watches, _sees_ him.

 

“This is _just_ for me. Tina, I’m doing this _for me_. And I’d like _you_ ,” he breathes. “To answer, just for _you_.”

 

Truly, truly.

 

There’s no space Newt can imagine dwelling in, other than one that houses them together.

 

“Tina,” he says, without difficulty. “Will you marry me?”

 

She’s staring at him as if he’s sprouted tentacles from his mouth like a graphorn. Probably, she supposes that he thinks of them as the only breeding pair left on earth. That this is just animal magnetism, desperation. Creatures are fine with desperation, and mating for its own sake. This is where humans are different.

 

“Sorry, so sorry,” Newt tries, cheeks flushing as he quickly sets his suitcase out on the floor and prepares to descend for the ring.

 

A very eager team of bowtruckles, with Pickett on top, make a discreet but effective ladder, holding the ring’s box in their spindly arms. There’s a right way to do this, but Newt’s already in the right place. These stairs are infused with memories of her, feeding him, taking him and Jacob in, housing his creatures.

 

Then Tina says it.

 

“I’m not Leta,” she interjects, and her face is stony.

 

 _‘It’s you. Only you’_ , he wants to say. Shout.

 

Dragonfire wounds take time, but heal nonetheless. The scar will be there, and Newt thinks that’s fine. There are a million other scars on his body, and, eventually, this one will hold no significance over the other ones caused by other wild, beautiful, imperious things.

 

“You’re not,” Newt smiles, and the truth sets him free.

 

He feels light as a bird in flight. The ring is a too-small rock that nonetheless grounds him, lest he float away in his newfound freedom.

 

“Merlin, I am so glad you’re not.”

 

Then he is assailed by a very yellow, very sharp parasol as it juts out from the wall.

 

“Oh for Merlin’s sake, just kiss ‘er, already! Tina! Your sister never took _this_ long!”

 

Newt’s explored wilderness before. He knows magizoologists must be quick, when a habitat becomes unsafe to dwell in. He hurries.

 

Humans are not creatures, but there are some universal languages Newt has waited too long to try. He guides her chin up smoothly, and melts into her gravity. Newt pulls back, and he cannot lie.

 

“It’s _you_ , you know. Only you.”

 

Their joy mirror each other.

 

Tina pulls him into her again, into her space. Newt is loathe to ever let her go, but there’s a bowtruckle with attachment issues pulling at his cuff.

 

“Pickett, what are you—”

 

He pulls open his suitcase. An outline of an erumpent horn is happily lodged into what used to be a box of delicate scones, but now are just crumbly bits exploded around the space of his shack. It smells warm and sweet.

 

“It smells like England in there,” Tina says, kneeling by his side. "I missed that smell."

 

He gapes at her, surprised. “You like England?”

 

“Some things, you only find in England,” she smiles.

 

.

.

.

 

_Tina,_

 

_I am still stuck at conferences celebrating the second edition’s release in London._

_Happily, I told my publicist that my leg’s acting up again, and will not last unless I have my nurse across the Atlantic take a look at it within the week. This is not a lie, since there are times my knees grow a bit soft, thinking of you. Before my publicist threatens to detain me at St. Mungo's, I will be on a ship to see you and the returned Mr. and Mrs. Kowalski._

_Just so you know, I haven’t changed my decision despite fame, fortune, family (really, they love you), all those things you listed as obstructions. I intend to ask again. I want you to know that there are no boundaries for where we could live, or travel. I’m happiest when I’m with you, tea or coffee._

 

_Yours ,_

_Newt_

 

.

.

.

 

It’s Tina—Tina soon-to-be Mrs. Scamander, with her determined face and her straight brown locks—who walks down the aisle of a too-small space, come to take the name of a man born with a too-long name.

 

When Tina finally comes to stand next to her sister, it feels like Newt’s seeing himself, just a bit. (Except that she’s much, much stronger, more gorgeous, more brilliant than him.)

 

Her soulful eyes _see_ him.

 

The cleric tells him that she wants to dwell in his space for as long as they both live, die, the whole shebang. It’s enough to make him want to stutter out something incomprehensible, thank Merlin, shoot a furtive glance at Mrs. Esposito in the stands, and glare daggers at a grinning Theseus beside him.

 

When he takes Tina’s hand, Newt is anything but a wisp of a man. Her substance grounds him, seals him to her. Even Dragonfire is not enough to scatter their ashes away from each other, at the end of their days.

 

And when they turn to face the altar, the world is at their back, inhabiting the same small space that the happy couple inhabits. (Well, just some of the world, but Tina’s always had the ability to expand his horizons.)

 

They give each other a chaste peck as a seal, and the space explodes in cries, tears, cheering.

 

Newt does not grow quiet against these echoing walls, but strangely exultant.

 

He submits to gravity and gives Tina another, and another, although this is outside the realm of conventional human ritual. Tina doesn’t mind.

 

She sees him and wants to dwell in his space, anyhow.

 

The audience doesn’t mind either, judging by the clapping and soft, teary smiles. They look ready to storm the altar, and Newt runs through several escape options.

 

“I knew we should have had a smaller wedding,” whispers Tina, still a bit pink.

 

“Reception's small. Maybe quick, too,” Newt says hopefully. He glances sideways at her, smiling at him, and feels bewildered and sated and whole.

 

She sees his bewildered look and laughs.

 

“Can I take you with me, Newt?” Her fingers entwine with his. “Are you ready?”

 

The rest of their lives is a long time, but Newt imagines it’s already too short.

 

Then they run, half-skip, down the aisle, through the cheering crowds, out into the open spaces.

 

.

.

.

End.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are amazing. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you, for reading this story and this series!


End file.
